


craigslist ad

by saturno



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Fisting, Animal Death, Craigslist, Depression, Disgusting Descriptions, Dissociation, Dubious Consent, Gangbang, Gore, Lowercase, M/M, Multiple Partners, New York City, Porn, Psychological Horror, Recreational Drug Use, self mutilation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-01-06 08:40:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1104759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saturno/pseuds/saturno
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>28Y.O 6' 130LBS WHITE HAIRLESS TWINK LOOKING FOR BAREBACK SEX, LOOKING TO TRAVEL, U HOST ;-)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is a nameless male character ive been messing around with, his theme is he's someone suffering from clinical depression but has stopped fighting, and his method of self harm is deliberately putting himself in dangerous situations with other people. i guess then this story is one of his instances of hurting himself. i wrote it all in lowercase so i could write it quickly. it's not finished yet but ill put up more if i wind up with any more.

(he makes a sound like a dog he saw once that had been run over on the BQE, taking a cab home back to bushwick on a night similar to the night this one had been. bad traffic. saw it for a full minute and watched from the backseat. run over but not dead. he thinks of its intestines burst out of the back of it in crushed coiling loops, pulling along in wet trails behind it and the whining, keening, squealing)  
(someone should do it a favor)  
(he thinks of himself on the side of the road with his insides crushed to thick mash behind him as he drags himself, fingernails peeling back and off)  
(someone help that poor baby)

...

the C train is always a few shades of disgusting. he can feel the bottoms of his shoes sticking to the floor, no doubt from where someone had spilled soda or coffee a few hours earlier. the only other person in the train car is occupied with something on his phone and doesnt bother looking up between stops.  
today his name's david. or dennis. he hasn't decided yet and doesnt think too hard about one or the other. he figured he can just pick one when he gets there. whichever sounds best to him.  
he (david or dennis or maybe danny? that one's good too) finds himself lazily flipping through playlists trying to find something appropriate to listen to for the last handful of stops before canal st but just gets stuck on the same goddamn joy division album again.

for a short while, in the last 5 minutes of the trip, he thinks of ian curtis' stupid jerking shivering dancing.

...

the place stinks of telltale chain smokers living somewhere in one of the other apartments. "ian," or the man who fit the picture sent over who introduces himself as ian, meets him at the door, and that's funny for a few seconds. he says he's danny as they walk up the narrow spiraling stairs. it fits best.  
the steps creak and groan tremendously under his not so tremendous weight. ian mumbles something about the super needing to fix the piece of shit busted stairs right at the top and he's only here until his ex roommate gives him back what he lent him for his security deposit, then he's gone. nerves talking, probably. danny is barely listening and instead watches himself climb from someplace off to the side and not so far away, in his head maybe. wasnt the joy division like the sex slave area of concentration camps or something? he hates that he's thinking this fucking much about joy division but it's that kind of a night.

the sticky tobacco smell in the walls peels back into cloying marijuana smoke as ian finally gets the door open and lets them both into the living room. a fat woman in a depeche mode shirt looks disinterestedly in their direction from the adjacent kitchen and lets an opaque cloud hiss out from between her teeth that actually winds up filling the tiny kitchen space up, dissipating in all directions. "hey," she says, blinking slowly. "hey," ian says as he peels off his coat. she puts the bong she was nursing down next to the sink, stands and brushes herself off, grabs her own coat from the chair next to her, saying, "im gonna go see the hobbit and then i guess pick up the laundry."  
"ok, we should be done by 10 or 10:30."  
"cool."  
she stops at the door, "do you think i need an umbrella?"  
"i'd take one, yeah."  
dannyboy thinks about how he didnt bring an umbrella. the woman picks the umbrella up from the coat rack and leaves and has to pull the door an extra time to get the lock to really stick.

kaTHUNK.

danny can tell they arent alone. the sound of chattering comes from the back of the living room, behind one of the three doors he can see. he thinks to himself - bathroom in the middle, the woman's bedroom on the right, ian's bedroom on the left with the voices. he's kicked off his shoes near the front door for politeness' sake but doesnt take his coat off, just follows ian in past the coffee table, past the couch, past the standing lamp with somebody's undershirt thrown over it. there are four people in the back in the tiny cramped room. if the guy's bed had been a queen or a king, it would take up most of the available walking space. lucky it's only a twin. lucky.  
two are reclining on the floor on their phones. one is taking a nap. one is in the computer chair in the corner with an older issue of hi-fructose. when ian comes in, they all look up in unison, eyes first going to  
danny  
sizing him up and down through the layers of coat and shirt and hidden skin  
then to ian.  
"this is the guy?" says hi-fructose.  
"this is the guy."  
phone1 looks around the room and then from person to person and says, "are we all gonna fit in here?"  
nap takes that to mean something different. nap is staring directly at him with that sort of expression on his face.  
well?  
*are* we all gonna fit?  
danny stares straight back and feels himself starting to smile in a purely nervous, reflexive way that he knows comes across far differently. nap is smiling too. theyre all friends here.  
"there's enough room," someone in the room says because things are starting to swim. phones are down. magazine is down. this turns them more or less faceless, individually voiceless.  
danny-thing takes one deep breath and feels himself starting to move to get out of his coat. he wonders if hes smiling. how big. everyone in this room is smiling. he finds himself about to wonder, where is ian?, until the thought is shut up by ian pulling the rest of his coat off his body. he hears it land soft in a heap, someplace not so far in the corner.  
he thinks about how some animals bare their teeth when threatened or  
(but this isnt threatening, is it)  
(see everybody smiling, we're friends here)  
surrounded.  
someone is working at getting his shirt up and over. someone's tongue is sliding up the underside of his jaw. someone is biting down on the side space between the bottom of his ribs and his pelvis, pressure only testing first and then harder when he doesnt react. harder until he does. hiss. throaty noise.

are you guys hungry or what?  
(hes said aloud - hes spoken aloud - his voice talking without him)

with little fanfare someone slicked down is pushing in and working on fucking him before he or anyone's bothered to get his pants completely off. still standing he bends forward at the waist and arches, stretches, feeling his back crack. coming alive. whoever is behind him gains some momentum and manages another inch or so inward.

"sure."  
someone's hand pressing down around his throat. further in. he didnt use enough lubricant. his insides are tugging and starting to burn.  
"starving."

in his mind, as he feels the Release coming inside of himself, as he feels his mind and self loosening its grip on conscious thought, he thinks of the woman in the depeche mode shirt and the all-consuming cloud that spewed out of her lungs. moving almost in slow motion.

he feels himself start to

 

dri f t

 

((gonna eat you eat you gonna tear you up hes gonna eat you))  
((theyre gonna eat you you wont exist you wont exist winked out null void null nothing void nothing eat you nothing down to nothing))  
((dirty dirty filthy dirty nasty dirty fucker nothing))  
((are you going away poor baby poor nasty thing nasty dirty thing poor thing poor baby you poor poor thing you sorry sad thing))

his body feels himself letting go and almost goes into autopilot. muscle memory. the person behind him has switched out for somebody else and this person is not as mean and makes a point to shove a thank fucking god merciful amount of lube up inside him. regardless he feels his body choking with someone pushing their fingers down his throat trying to find where his conscious control stops and the gag reflex begins. his reflex is terrible. he needs to be pushed every time to get anywhere decent and stay there. he thinks he gets reprimanded by every person. someone is rubbing the head of their cock right on the back of his tongue right on top of the pressure point in his mouth where the gag reflex starts because they think it'd be funny to try and make him really sick. see how much he was up for. brainlessly he thinks of pointlessly cruel children pulling the legs off an insect a section at a time. he thinks of the second back wheel of the car crushing through the soft opened smeared belly of the dog on the BQE straight after the first wheel, no reason, no real reason for it, thats just how it goes sometimes. sometimes people are cruel.  
someone else. this person isnt nice. he hears stupid staccato noises being forced out of him with the air being pressed out. he thinks he's drooling. he tries to shift one of his legs to balance himself better and finds his pants are bunched and stuck around his knees. someone pushes against the side of his face impatient for the other person to get his hands off the back of his head and pass it already christ.  
his insides are burning. going too fast. nauseous. hurts. thinks of the car and everything bursting out of his own body and makes a thin warbling squelch of a noise around the dick in his throat. he thinks of them both reaching further and twisting through his digestive tract to meet in the center and pull him apart in half. the person pulls back and he lurches forward with his lips and tongue trying to follow, making an idiot whining sound. someone's fingers push in and reach in two down onto the back of his tongue and it turns harsh as he tries to turn his head away. someone forces his head still. someone pushes further back. theyre all smiling. dannything's smiling too.  
it's fun.

switch. there are hands around his throat in a heartbeat. before he can react hes being shoved to the floor facefirst out of everyone else's multiple grasps, hips still up, knees still more or less locked. his chin strikes down against the hardwood first, teeth clacking together loudly in his own head, someone's hands hard and stony against the back of his neck and the top of his head as they fuck him. this is nap, he can tell this is nap, nap was the one staring him down. saw how much bigger than him he looked even just laying there. nap pulls his head up and slams it again into the floor because apparently the first time wasnt satisfactory - this time he bites down hard on the inside of his cheek. the pressure on his head and neck is so great he wonders if nap is trying to push through his skull and brain and straight into the floor. nap is pulling his upper body up off the floor and backwards in a harsh arching crunch by his grip on dannycunt's throat. he feels the man's teeth and tongue against the back of his head, around the back of his right ear, the side of his face.

blankly, privately, he wonders how badly nap is going to hurt him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> found some more on my phone from a while ago.

'get up,' the thought runs through his head in a flat voice but he is paralyzed at the bottom of the shower. he can feel pain radiating up though the base of his body, up his tailbone and spinal cord like a pike squelched in. stuck on a pike and left to roast in the sun. burning. searing.  
'get up.'

"did you fall down?" says a voice from just outside the bathroom, someone stepping in.

he can't look up. there's blood spiraling through the water sucking down the drain beneath him. he is clenching into the fetal position. there's a sound like a beaten dog from somewhere high up in his chest. can feel his mouth pulled back into a long tight hole like scar tissue, a thin lipped smile-looking grimace. he thinks of the dog in his chest panting like he'd seen dogs do when they were happy. he thinks of the whites of the dog's wildly rolling eyes.

"oh."

this man's name is jordan or joey. he couldn't pull the shower curtain closed when he first got in and now jordan or joey is standing there in the open bathroom doorway staring into the bottom of his shower where he is hiding. he wants to turn fluid and melt down the drain into the sewer system, away from him staring. the phantom pike stabbed up into his intestines is white hot nickel. he imagines himself cooking from the inside out. sizzling slowly.

"are you okay?"  
jordan or joey's voice and words say one thing but his sneering face says something entirely different. the ceiling lamp behind them throws his shadow over his prone body, black, thick, like a tire tread cutting across the center of him. he says, 'i'm fine please leave' but it comes out as a high-pitched whining from somebody else. somebody in his body that isn't him. he refuses to believe this is himself.

(he thinks of jordan or joey's entire hand - entire fist - inside his body pushing forward hard against the slammed-down resistance. he thinks of him reaching up further and puncturing through his diaphragm and clawing his way upwards to his heart and squeezing tight until it ruptured in his fist like an overripe peach.)


End file.
